


The Beautiful Blood

by PerfidiousMadmen



Series: Small Fics Of Silva [5]
Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Blood, Cutting, Gen, Insanity, Knifeplay, Marking, No Dialogue, No Sex, Non-Consensual Violence, Scarification, Silva Being Insane, Stream of Consciousness, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-04
Updated: 2013-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-23 14:37:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/623264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PerfidiousMadmen/pseuds/PerfidiousMadmen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sliva needs to see blood, needs to hurt someone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Beautiful Blood

**Author's Note:**

> For lostinthebabylon.

The knife presses into the too-smooth flesh. Skin parts, peeling back from the steel. And then blood. Beautiful blood.

Blood melts away the knot of rage twisting inside every moment of every day. Blood fascinates. Blood soothes. Beautiful blood.

But no beautiful screams. Not yet. This one will bend far before breaking. Supple.

Lines, curved and straight—crimson all. Few thrills can be as vast as defiling of immaculate skin, marking the unmarked, carving an emblem of ownership where it can never be removed.

How they go through their lives, willfully blind to the true nature of things. Blind to the smoothness of their skin. They live only by the grace of the shepherds whom they pretend do not exist. But what use is an old guard dog? Can it be trusted to stay with the flock? No, it is not a sheep. It is a danger. Better to shoot it. The smoothness of their skin comes at such cost, such cost they will never know.

The knot is twisting again, tearing, ripping, rending, burning inside.

No—

The beautiful blood, a whole world in tones of red. A bucket of water, and the inflamed slices are again in sharp relief. A quick swipe with a towel, then ashes, handfuls of ashes. The ashes smear grey across the skin.

The body flinches, bends.

 _Remember that thou art dust ..._ How grey that other skin was, long ago, after so long without light, after a death or two.

No—

The ashes blend with blood, pushed in, deeper. Each slit packed hard with ashes. They will encase, enclose, grow around and over, hard and raised.

This mark will not be removed. This mark cannot be removed.

Even when the knot is gone, cut by the one who tied it—by the only one who can cut it—even then, there will be a mark, a record. Someone will remember. Even just this one sheep.


End file.
